Kindred Spirits
by manic-intent
Summary: AU. What if Vayne had married Ashe for the shard? Originally written for livejournal's kissing battle, expanded into fiction. Vayne x Ashe.
1. Empress

Following Empress – a short fic written for a kissing battle: for FFnet, since the link will not work, here's the copy:

It had seemed a good idea at the time, to marry the pretty young princess from Dalmasca so as to attain the shard in a non-violent way, but the consequences caught up with Vayne all too quickly, after everything.

It had taken Ashe months after she discovered his true motives to speak to him again, let alone tolerate his presence, and Vayne had been happy to let her be in Dalmasca. He wasn't quite interested in explaining himself to her, compared to sorting out the political chaos he had caused in Archades, but eventually Larsa had talked him into visiting.

And as such, instead of having a fine evening sparring with Gabranth in the courtyard or going riding with his brother he was dressed too formally in the stifling heat of a damned _desert_ following his wife into a ravine without a guard. 

Ashe, at least, was dressed for the weather, if all too indecently for high society in Archades, and Vayne was torn between admiring the amount of bronzed skin available for inspection under the gauzy white material, and wondering whether his Queen had just decided that she was better off being a widow and was trying to kill him with heat stroke.

"Where are we going?" Vayne asked, trying his best not to sound petulant, dragging out the cravat of his dress shirt and using it to tie his long hair back, stumbling over sharp scree. At least there was shade, but it was still bloody hot, though he would be damned if he had to strip off his jacket and shirt in front of a lady.

"Nearly there," Ashe called, sounding amused. Revenge. This was certainly revenge.

"Lady Ashelia… _blast_, I must protest-" He paused, as Ashe slipped into what looked like a crevasse in the wall, and sighed.

Still, he followed, muttering at one point to himself as the hilt of his blade caught in a niche, and noticed that there was a distant, continuous rumble. Water. He stumbled out after her into a blessedly cold mist, from the spray of a waterfall tumbling from the outcrop above, forming a veil of pure water before them, laced with a small rainbow. It was a cliff overlooking one of the desert's few oases: below, the shock of green followed the edge of a sunken valley. Birds foraged in nervous flutters of white and gray against the grass. Vayne blinked.

Ashe sat down, folding her legs under her. She did not speak, looking down instead at the birds.

Finally, Vayne murmured, "Thank you." Water was precious in the desert, water and the knowledge of water.

At that, she glanced up, surprised, then looked back at the shimmering veil. "I hated you."

"I know."

She twisted her hands in her lap. "I know why you married me." When he didn't respond, she added, a little irritably, "Why did you not _explain_? Your brother had to write me a _letter_."

"Would you have believed me?"

Ashe chewed on her lip, more girlish than ladylike. Vayne reminded himself that she was seventeen, not nearly a woman, and felt something odd twist in his gut. "I'm not sure I do. But my father does."

"It does not matter."

"Does it not?" Ashe's temper flares. "Did you not _care_ that I hated you? Why did you not care enough to _explain_?" She took a deep breath, and he found himself speechless, then she sighed. "When I first saw you, you in your armor on your white chocobo, I was glad."

"You were?" Vayne looked down at her, blinking.

"I had always known that my marriage would be arranged. I was glad that you were handsome, that you looked intelligent and kind and wise." She had blushed when he had kissed her wrist, Vayne recalled. He had thought her father had explained. Certainly he had not touched her on the wedding night. "And then on the night itself you did not… then I knew it was true. You had only wanted the kingdom." _Not me_.

"I did not touch you because you were sixteen," Vayne said, and sat down beside her. "Not because I did not want you."

She thought that over, her head lowered, and he pulled off his gloves, reaching over, slowly, to cup one soft cheek. Ashe allowed him to lean close, even as she murmured, "I have yet to forgive you still. But I may someday understand."

"Allow me to make some reparation, my Lady," Vayne whispered, leaning further, and her lips were full and sweet as they parted.


	2. Kindred Spirits

[A/N: The thing about writing in a fandom for so long is that after a while your characters start to follow set lines: I actually got a little bored walking halfway through Rules 13 – my Basch and my Balthier seem to be speaking old conversations already spoken by earlier fics. So here's trying some het for a while just to keep my interest in writing. XD;; (yes, I have written het before, I just got into slash) I seriously do want to write more for Heroes, but hearing about the casting list for next season makes me sad.

Feb 20 – Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars

Kindred spirits

I For I am yet unfamiliar

Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca considered her reflection in the thrice-polished silver. Sixteen. She was still late to bloom (a desert flower through and through, so she had once been told, though this not unkindly), and she thought, critically, that the too hot, too prettily feminine dress that bared her shoulders and clung to her skin, down to her hips, to be swept in a flowing fishtail at her feet, that this _dress_ made her look far more boyish than she already was. (Oh, for her skirts and blouse and boots!)

"Nonsense," Maethel, the plump ladies' maid that had once also been her nursemaid huffed, as her surprisingly agile fingers arranged the heavy necklace of emeralds at her neck. "You look gorgeous, my lady."

"The _dress _looks gorgeous," Ashe corrected. The freckles over her nose and cheeks had yet to fade, she was too _thin_, and she rather wished that the Gods had seen fit to gift her somewhat more amply with curves. She was tall for a Dalmascan, but at the moment this only made her look gangly. "Or it would, on a woman."

"It would look like a swathe of curtains on myself," Maethel said sternly, and for a moment, imagining the matronly, no-nonsense old woman in this cocktail of silk and chiffon made Ashe smile. Behind her, in the reflection, Maethel's wrinkled apple face creased into a motherly grin. "Now smile like that, _habibat_, smile like that later for Maethel, sweet child."

Maethel was fussing over her dress, her nervous excitement all too evident. _Like the mother she hardly remembered would have fussed over her_, Ashe thought. Only Maethel called her _beloved_: for now (ah, but then, she should not dare hope). "'Tis already as perfect as you can make it, _raqi'qah_."

She could barely walk in the damned shoes, heeled slippers of silk and gold, and they hurt the soles of her feet. She wished she had practiced, wished that the heat of the sun didn't mean that the makeup favored by women of northern lands was impractical, wished that she was _older_.

For peace, her father had said. One month ago. _Archadia turns its attention south, my child. And if it so wishes, the Empire can crush us easily._

_Archadia has an Emperor of age yet unmarried_. Ashe was young, but she had grasped her father's thought immediately, though after that, she had faltered. _But I…_

_You need only meet him_, her father had said, and kindly, if uncomfortably. She understood only what that had meant afterwards, when she was alone in the library, her favorite place to sit and think. An invitation to meet was clear invitation for… _arrangements_, in the words of politics.

And this she did for Dalmasca, a child trying to be pretty as a doll, unused to her slippers and her smile so un-Queenly under her freckles, to meet an Emperor, and her resentment was growing. "Why do the Archadian Princelings take so quickly to war?"

She had not meant that to be wondered out aloud, but Maethel clicked her tongue at her and fussed (again) at her too-hot, impractical feminine silk gloves, that caught her skin to her elbows and made her palms sweat. "Do not say that to _him_ when you meet him, _habibat_."

"I do have sense, old mother," Ashe chided gently.

Somewhat mollified, Maethel turned to squint out of her window. At least this room would be _hers_ still, no matter what happened, Ashe thought: she had heard the servants talk – if there was marriage there would be a separate bridal chamber, not that _they_ thought she would live in Dalmasca, afterwards. _That_ thought had frightened her: the furthest Ashe had been on visits had been Bhujerba, to her uncle's. The Empire seemed distant.

_I do not want this_, Ashe thought, suddenly and fiercely, just as Maethel touched her wrist. "We should be away, Princess."

0.1 Ever Since

Dalmasca, Vayne decided, was too hot: he'd known it was desert, but in the vague way one knew that snow was cold – he hadn't known how gods-damned bloody _searing_ it was, the grounds during the dry season cracked and sun-blasted and choked with sand, gods-forsaken and barren. He was going to roast in his armor, Vayne thought, sourly.

II White Knights

Ashe was wavering between feeling nervous, standing beside her father and sweating gently in the damned dress (damn fashion and their damned feminine layered dresses), as she watched the sleek silver and gold airship land with a roar of glossair on the promenade, and feeling amused, at the palpable tension from the two generals behind her.

Basch fon Ronsenburg and Vossler York Azelas clearly Did Not Approve, Ashe thought, and had to swallow a giggle. She did not need to turn around to know that both of them were likely staring hard at the dark outlines of the Imperial fleet, which hovered at a respectful distance over the desert from Rabanastre. Destroyers ringed the massive cruiser _Leviathan_: she'd not seen so large a ship, and as much as it disconcerted the knights behind her, it intrigued her. What sort of trappings would an Emperor's cruiser have, gold and furs and precious art?

Lost in that line of inquiry, Ashe blinked when her father murmured her name. The Archadian procession was descending from the airship, first a row of marching Imperials, brilliantly silver in their impractical full armor (she had definitely heard Vossler snort behind her, and Basch shush him with a mutter). It was strangely military, and she heard the uncomfortable murmurs from the crowd, as the Imperials split into two rows, turning with clockwork precision, marching a step, then turning again, their halberds crunching down against flagstones, as they formed a path for the rider that followed them.

She had been told he was handsome, but Vayne was _beautiful_, Ashe thought, trying to suppress her blush. There were few other words to describe Archadia's Emperor, who sat tall and proud on his tasseled white chocobo, a fringe of long, silky black hair combed over his aquiline features, dressed in ornate ceremonial armor of black enamel and iridescent green scale mail, gold trimming and leaf over greaves and gauntlets, the Solidor sword-insignia emblazoned over his chestplate. A white brocade cloak flowed heavily from sweeping shoulderplates, fashioned cunningly from overlapping silver and gold to resemble the swept wings of an eagle.

His steed was obviously spirited, bulkier, a charger, not a courtier's toy, even under its mother-of-pearl saddle and velvet cloth, and though it obeyed its master's touch there was an evident wildness in its yellow eyes that promised that the steed would be happy to find an excuse to kick or peck anyone else who came too close. Basch was probably admiring it now, Ashe knew, his tension about the ships on the skyline temporarily forgotten. The desert bred several good pedigrees, but the white chocobos were rare, with none left wild, the strains kept only in the royal Houses of Rozarria and Archadia.

Vayne dismounted a good fifteen paces away and whispered something at his steed: it eyed him almost reproachfully, and he patted its beak. It chirped, but did not bite. _That_ told Ashe more than the trappings that the chocobo accepted and knew its master, that it didn't bite Vayne for the liberty. _A war prince_.

The Emperor smiled politely through the herald's unnecessary introductions that extolled her father's full name and rank, then his, then hers. "Your Majesty, I thank you for your hospitality." His tone was carefully friendly, if formal.

"You honor us with your presence," her father replied. "Please, stay as long as you wish, Emperor Vayne."

"I am afraid that business calls me quickly back to Archades," the Emperor apologized smoothly, turning to her, "For this I feel regret, as your desert kingdom has already surprised me with its beauty."

A courtier's lines, Ashe thought, with some disappointment, and absently gave him her hand, following the cue – then blinked, as for one moment she met his eyes, read the cold intelligence and the ruthlessness, the tightly controlled passion. Behind Vayne's dark eyes, a wolf looked back at her, curious – then was gone, as he brushed a kiss over the back of her wrist.

She was blushing and she couldn't control it, staring hard at Vayne as he looked back up, but he was unreadable again, as Ashe used the lines she'd long learned. "Your Majesty is most kind."

Vayne inclined his head at her, turning to address the generals, and Ashe abruptly felt confined in the choking web of royal civility and custom, felt the impulse well within her, knew her father would chide her afterwards but did not care. "I have not seen a breed like your charger before, your Majesty."

Vayne glanced at her, then back at his impatient mount. "The white chocobos are bred only in the Margrace and Solidor stables, your Highness. Which is quite a pity, given the strained relationship between our Houses. Pure white chocobos such as my Caesar are more of a rarity now than the norm."

"Does he take poorly to others?"

"It bites its handlers, sometimes," Vayne said, his tone dismissive of her girlish curiosity, and _that_ settled it.

And Ashe _knew_ she should cede the conversation to Basch and Vossler, but the damned irritation of the dress, her curiosity at the wolf and her overall resentment of the situation was building. She walked to the chocobo, heard Basch's startled warning murmur of _Princess_ behind her, knew as it clicked its beak at her that she could well be bitten. Then it swiveled its head to look past her, at its master, and stilled its ruffling feathers at some hidden gesture, though it still eyed her resentfully.

At least one other creature did not like this stilted ceremony, Ashe thought, and had to smile, reaching forward to stroke its soft ruff. This obviously surprised the animal, which cocked its beautifully bred head, its beak parting warningly, and Ashe reached with her small fingers under the strap of its bridle to the soft, ticklish spot under its cheekbone that Basch had shown her once, albeit with his far more friendly charger. It could still bite her, could still peck her deep to the bone, and for one moment Ashe realized how bloody _stupid_ this was, how _childish_… and then Caesar began to churr, in the deep, vibrating fluting whistle of a chocobo's pleasure.

"You are so beautiful," Ashe murmured to it, and it closed its eyes, its churr deepening. The scolding afterward would be worth it, and besides, this didn't matter, she knew, if Vayne wanted the kingdom she could have been fat and deformed and insane for all he would have cared.

"Can you ride, Princess?" Vayne asked behind her, and she flinched, startled. She hadn't heard him approach. She half turned, and Vayne seemed amused: instinctively, her ire rose – then she saw the wolf again, in his eyes, watching her, and she hesitated.

"Your Majesty," Vossler was clanking up to them to intercede. "The Princess is-"

"The Princess would be _pleased_ to ride," Ashe said, as imperiously as she could, holding Vayne's eyes, saw the wolf bare its teeth into a grin: Vayne smirked, his back to Vossler, inclined his head, and there was challenge there, as he folded his fingers together to give her a leg up.

That she pointedly ignored – Basch had taught her, after all – hooking one stupid silk-slippered toe into the stirrup and pulling herself a little precariously up onto Caesar's back, glad for the flowing dress and not caring how much a view of her leg rearranging skirts had just flashed Vayne and Vossler. Certainly the general Did Not Approve, from his scowl, though her father was carefully expressionless and Basch was very badly trying to hide a smile.

The bird chirped, slightly confused, though it allowed her to settle and take the reins. She could feel its coiled power, and wondered how it would be like to give it its head over the sand, and thought _well, why not_, gripping it with her thighs and urging it forward, guiding it. It responded easily enough to her touch, and the Dalmascan people, at least, were certainly amused, grinning encouragingly at her (did you _see_ what our _Princess_ did to their _Emperor_) and parting, 'accidentally' getting into the way of the Imperial soldiers who faltered for a moment in their lines until they saw their Emperor give a half-shake of his head.

"Thank you, your Majesty, I will be sure to return him safe," she called over her shoulder, not daring to see her father's expression, and took it to a canter, then a run, towards the eastern gate. The wind caught her hair and blew it wild over her shoulders.

0.2 princess

Vayne was still watching the girl make off with his prized chocobo when King Raminas began to apologize, a little ponderously, for her age and whimsy: he blinked at the old King for a moment, startled - why would Raminas apologize for having so magnificent a daughter – then remembered himself and fell to courteous pleasantries.

III The Winged

Dalmasca looked plain from the air during the evening, Ashe thought, with Rabanastre as its jewel under the endless dark sky, small and defiant against the sand. She could feel a faint chill, even through the steelglass she leant against: Vayne's cabin in the _Leviathan_ had a wall of glass, hullside, bordered with rich velvet cushions on the ground that seemed a little out of place. The rest of the _Leviathan_, including its Emperor's quarters, were spartan, a cruiser built for war, with little thought of creature comforts. The cabin was spacious, but other than a wardrobe, an armor and weapons rack, a rather motley, colorful framed painting, a desk stacked with parchments and books, a bed with plain sheets, there was nothing else that spoke of royalty.

"My brother's," Vayne said, catching her inquiring glance. He was dressed somewhat less formally, in a sleeved white shirt and soft breeches that swallowed corded muscle: now he looked every inch a courtier, even leaning against the glass with his long legs stretched before him. "He is ten," he added.

"Prince Larsa."

"Aye." The fondness in his smile was fleeting, as he glanced up briefly at the painting. His brother's hand, likely. Ashe felt a faint knot in her belly, as she looked back at her city. The _Leviathan_ might be free of comforts, but that made it no less a symbol of power.

"What do you want from Dalmasca?" she asked then, a little defiantly. "The Empire has always left us alone. We buffer your borders from Rozarria."

"So you do," Vayne said, and he smiled again, this time patronizing. _Humoring her_, Ashe thought, with some irritation.

"We do not have any resources that the Empire does not already possess," she persisted, "And worse, were we to marry, your Empire's relationship with Rozarria may yet be strained."

"Were we to marry," Vayne repeated, slyly, and she blushed, hating herself for doing so – he was obviously baiting her.

"I doubt you tarry here because you enjoy the weather," Ashe snapped, having seen him sweat in his armor.

Her glare only made his smile widen, but he looked away first, sipping from his champagne. _He_ hadn't offered her any; Ashe recalled irritably, only fruit juice: that told her eloquently enough what he thought of her. A _child_. Angry now, Ashe pulled herself up to him, hating the elaborate heavy ruffles of the endless new dresses she _had_ to wear in Vayne's presence, grabbing the flute of champagne from him and draining it, rolling the bittersweet fizz in her throat as she leaned forward to press her lips firmly to his.

Vayne made a startled sound, but opened his mouth to share the dregs easily enough, allowed her to fumble her first kiss, with her so self-consciously stiff, her cheeks flushed bright and wondering what in _Raithwall's name_ was she _doing_, then he took the flute gently from her fingers, setting it aside, and pulled her into his arms, stroked one gloved finger up her back to her bared shoulder, pressed her up against him (so _warm_), his tongue chasing the memory of champagne past her lips.

0.3 the cloak of stars

"You _are_ here for Dalmasca, are you not?" she demanded, when they parted; kisses and caresses had not softened her unpolished steel, as Ashelia Dalmasca sat back against the glass, against the clear velvet dark spotted with a thousand stars, her _birthright_, and Vayne merely smiled: he could not lie, not at that moment, though he wondered if he should.

IV And This is How

"And that is what you are to do, Princess, if _he_ tries anything inappropriate," Vossler said, his tone clear that in his opinion, in Vayne's case, heinous and inappropriate behavior would only be a matter of time.

Vossler was being serious, but Basch, the victim of demonstration, was laughing uncontrollably, despite being flat on his back on the courtyard, which fell to both Generals arguing. Ashelia hid her grin hastily before she worsened Vossler's temper – the man was simply being protective, even though his soldier's vocabulary was struggling to find 'appropriate' words with which to describe what he meant her to do to salient parts of Vayne's anatomy were he to 'try anything'.

"Vossler," Basch managed to cough, sitting up on the packed earth of the practice courtyard, "I very much doubt the necessity of this. The Emperor may indeed be a cunning snake, as you say, but I do not think that-"

"Do not mind him, Princess, he is easily bought," Vossler sniffed. Basch had been allowed to ride Caesar around for an hour and his opinion of Vayne had changed. Though that was probably inexorable, Ashe felt: Basch had an inevitably sunny opinion of just about everyone (like a gods-_damned_ puppy, she had overheard Vossler say once). "I will give you a dagger as well that you can probably hide in your skirts…"

"Oh yes, and that would not be trouble at all," Basch commented to the cloudless sky. Vossler's scowl deepened, and Ashe had to bite her tongue to swallow her giggle.

"Vossler, I thank you for your concern, but so far Vayne has shown himself to be a gentleman," Ashe said primly. "I do not think that a dagger would be a good idea." And besides, Vayne had already returned to Archades: it had been a month, and Ashe was beginning to wonder if her impulsive actions had made him rethink the arrangement. _As long as there was no war_.

"This is for your own good, Princess," Vossler said, clearly determined to be patient (a rare enough occurrence). "Now pay attention. If he does _this_… Basch, would you be fucking _cooperative_ for once – ah my apologies for the language, your Highness – then you should respond with…"

0.4 the wine

Yasri Jalvas of House Jalvas, socialite, heiress, political schemer extraordinaire and technically his closest friend, insisted that Vayne attend her soiree when he returned, where he found to his amusement and (a little) consternation that the fluttering, perfumed highborn butterflies now bored him.

V All that glitters

Ashe wondered if she should be offended that in the end, Vayne had married her for a stone, not even for the _kingdom_. She supposed that she should feel lucky: the fact of marriage meant that Dalmasca had been spared in exchange for her dowry (not quite so herself), but Nalbina had not been so fortunate.

She had known he was ruthless, but still… Dalmasca had been _used_. By circumstance of marriage they could not respond to their ancient treaty with Nalbina, which had capitulated under siege and threat and surrendered their shard. And the fact remained that no one seemed to know what Vayne wanted all the shards _for_. Legend spoke of untold power locked in their dulled hearts, but she had played with the shard in the treasury when she was a child and had felt nothing.

Now she stood at the balcony of the palace in Rabanastre (yet more reason to know he had cared only for the damn _stone_ – he hadn't bothered himself to even ask her presence to Archades) and fingered the red gold wedding band, considered being dramatic and flinging it out to the street. She glared at it, and then slipped it back onto her finger, angry and jerky and bitter.

0.5 coldy so

Vayne was not quite surprised when on his next obligatory visit to his wife in Dalmasca she was queenly furious, coldly polite, and disinclined to speak to him. Two stiffly formal days afterwards, he retired to Archades with relief. The inquest into his father's 'death' and the Senacy's apparent involvement needed a little more interference, and he had little time, he told himself, to spare for the niceties of coddling females. And there was still the matter of Giruvegan.

VI Words upon words

He held her in the dark against the wall of stars, aboard _Leviathan_, later that day, until he had told her everything, his tone brutally frank, almost unemotional, as he described motive and action and consequence; she was not quite sure she understood. Occuria control, Empires and the fate of Solidors: such words were the words of playwrights and bards, not an Emperor's.

"I said you would not believe me," Vayne murmured at the end, into her hair.

"And I said my father believed you."

Vayne shrugged. "I do not care if he believes me." As she glared at him, the wolf smiled, amending, "But I would like you to. Someday."

_Silver tongued, manipulative spider_, she told herself, as she pushed Vayne onto his back and straddled his waist, to her right her kingdom under the glass, digging her nails into him as she arched to kiss him, _claim_ him, mark his growing smirk with a reddened lip. And yet he left his hands on her hips, as Ashe stripped him of his shirt, her nervousness evident only in the way she chewed on her lip as she did so, holding his challenging stare as she scratched long nails down his chest. As Vayne gasped, Ashe studied him, frowned at the scars. _A war prince_. She ran the pad of her thumb curiously from the long one with the jagged edge, that went over his rib cage almost to his belly, felt him growl, and settled back over his hips (Gods, she could feel him stir, beneath her) and followed her thumb with her tongue, instead, felt muscle twitch restlessly, the scar tissue rough on her lips.

He was _hers _now, Ashe thought vengefully: certainly _this_, he would not have foreseen, even with all his calculation; but as much as she had given him the damned stone she would take her due for it, not _allow_ him to give her redress. Vayne was already hard, as she drew him out of his breeches (she would _not_ be shy, nor would she _blush_), and the Emperor hissed as she took the taut, hot weight in her hands, experimentally, wrinkled her nose at the spicy musk, squeezed, secretly pleased to watch him buck and growl, deeper, his hands fallen to his sides, his eyes hooded. "Ashelia."

"Your redress, my Lord Vayne," Ashe told him tartly, though she was unsure. What _was_ she to do next? This had certainly, she thought, biting down on her instinctive laughter, _not_ been covered by Vossler's _and if he does that_.

"Allow me," Vayne said gently (though she can hear his impatience), taking her into his arms to kiss her until she lost her stiffness, despite the heat she could still feel against her thigh, then he rolled her over, his fingers quick over the fastenings of her dress, her undergarments, and _Gods_, her fingers dug deep into his shoulders as Vayne began to knead a breast, his lips closing over the other, long dark hair silky and ticklish as it spilled on her skin. Ashe arched under his skilled touch, threw back her head and gasped as he suckled, wrapped her legs instinctively around his waist to urge him further, leant up to bite at the lobe of his ear. He growled – the wolf growled – and Ashe wondered how many women the _wolf_ had known, compared to the _Emperor_, had to smile as she tangled her fingers into his silky mane.

She was wet when Vayne finally touched her, kissing down her belly, stroking soft folds with sword-roughened pads, and he grinned lazily at her as she pushed herself up onto her elbows. "Vayne."

"Are you virgin?" he inquired, pulling a thigh onto his shoulder, and she could only stare at him, openmouthed, for a long moment. Vayne chuckled. "I take it that you are."

"Fuck you," she snapped, her temper flaring at his cavalier smile, not caring how his eyebrows rose and thanking the Gods for Vossler and his persistent vocabulary, trying to kick, "If that amuses you then-"

"It does not," Vayne said soberly, though she saw his lips twitch briefly into a grin, and pushed his case by attending to her thoroughly with his tongue. Ashe shuddered, writhing, as he lapped, sure and hard, unable to recognize the startled, hitching gasps her throat made as his tongue delved into her, thrusting, a _promise_, and she cried out as orgasm took her, shaking, numb, the ache between her thighs still throbbing. She shivered when he kissed her, afterwards, as Ashe tasted herself on him, felt Vayne purr as he pressed between her legs, _waiting_. The wolf waited, as she bit him gently over the pulse at his neck, smiled into it as Vayne growled, one of his hands firm under the small of her back and the other braced into the cushion at her head.

Finally, Ashe reached shakily between them, under her, guided the heavy prick somewhat nervously and awkwardly to herself, and frowned, as Vayne pushed her fingers away and pressed his forefinger against her, instead, working into her heat, nuzzling her cheek as she wrapped her arms tightly over his neck. She clamped around him, at the second, uncontrollably, felt Vayne tense in her arms and mutter a curse, and whispered his name in her next breath into his ear.

When he moved into her he was slow, careful; still she gasped as her body fought to adjust, bit his shoulder to silence her pain when he pushed deeper and took her maidenhead, Vayne's soothing whispers garbled against her hair, as he rocked deeper, _taking_; Ashe dug her nails into his shoulders and clawed down his back, scarring him, blinking back tears and baring her teeth as he arched into it, his wolf daring hers, and it is now that she _understood, _as she pushed her ankles against his back, pulled him _deeper_. _This skirmish was hers_, Ashe thought, as she leant up to claim parted lips, felt Vayne tense under her palms as she rocked against him, demanding more; even as he moved deeper within, stoking her pleasure, her hand was tight in his mane and clawed over his shoulder; _hers_.

Ashe was first spent, as Vayne's long fingers between them teased ecstasy from her folds, but he was not long to follow, shuddering atop her as he snarled, and at the end she took another kiss before he withdrew, bit hard enough to draw blood when he did, and licked the coppery tang over her lips.

0.6 the wolf thinks

Vayne gathered his sleeping Empress in his arms and splayed one hand over her belly; she murmured something in her sleep and curled closer, as he stroked fingers up to her ribs, her breast, and back to her navel, fixed his eyes on the window. From where he lay, he could see only the sky.

-fin-


	3. The Matter of the Ronsenburg Brothers

[A/N: For inutaisho, who wanted this AU's Basch and Noah to meet. Back to Rules now, hopefully!

Feb. 22 - "My heart is hardn'd, I cannot repent"

Kindred Spirits AU

Vayne x Ashe

The Matter of the Ronsenburg Brothers

I The Relevant Forgotten

The coincidence was remarkable, Vayne felt, as he studied the Judge-Magister before his desk, half-listening to Gabranth give his report on the mustering guerilla activities on the eastern border. Identical twins, and each belonging to radically different masters: but identical in face only, Vayne noted. Basch fon Ronsenburg seemed intrinsically good-natured; he smiled easily, and his regard had been fairly easy to earn. The brother who now called himself _Gabranth_, however, had a reputation even in the formal echelons of the Archadian Court as a cold bastard.

He'd known that one half of Landis' prodigal generals had fled to Dalmasca, of course, even as he had salvaged the other. It had proved to be a good investment, and he did not doubt that Raminas likely felt the same.

"Gabranth," Vayne interrupted postulation on the nature of guerilla motives. "You did not tell me your brother was also your twin."

Gabranth stilled, a sure sign that the Judge did not like the conversation and was about to be evasive. "I did not think it relevant," he said, smoothly and coldly. "Your Majesty."

"I imagine that you were both close, before the war." Vayne probed, finding this line of conversation far more entertaining than the myriad activity of revolutionary insects.

"I have forgotten Landis, sir." Gabranth said, and his eyes were hooded. "And I imagine that my brother has done the same."

"You never did tell me why you left for Archades."

"I told you that Landis had no hope of-"

"And I never did believe you," Vayne interrupted, with a sly smile, baiting his knight, wondering for a moment if Ashelia ever did the same to hers. The Ronsenburgs must be easy targets, even if the one he had was far more prickly a cat's paw than hers. "Trying to get you to agree to certain issues occasionally seems akin to running up against a brick wall. I do not think you would have abandoned your country purely because it had no hope of prevailing."

Leather pulled as Gabranth's fists clenched, then the man seemed to relax himself with some effort. "Landis _is_ now part of Archades, sir."

"And you never did tell me why you assumed a new name, _Noah_," Vayne continued. "Gabranth was your mother's, was it not?"

"It was. Sir." Gabranth said, his glacial tone bordering on impertinence. "Why is this relevant?"

Evasion came easily to Solidors, and the Ronsenburgs both seemed to lack the mental agility to keep up. _So unlike his Queen_, Vayne mused: for a girl of seventeen, her mind was already incisive enough to shred any attempt at verbal parrying with disdain. "I have a particularly trying relationship with the Empress as it is. Further complications would not be desirable."

"My brother does not know that I am a Magister. Either that or he does not care, for I have heard no word from him since Landis." Gabranth said then, reluctantly. "There should be no issue."

"And were she to visit Archades with an entourage?"

A humorless smile, and Gabranth's gauntlet tightened briefly on the horned helmet he supported against his hip. "There should be no issue, your Majesty."

This, Vayne felt, with some satisfaction, should be sufficient to occupy Ashelia on his next visit to Dalmasca.

0.1 somewhere along

Ashe prided herself on the fact that bedding her husband never left her any less inclined to make his life easier; and so they tended to spend the one obligatory week per month within which he paid court to her in Rabanastre more or less in dispute. She had much to say to Vayne the next she saw him, about the water tax in Steiinar to his handling of the rebellion at the Erastia border, and it did not occur to Ashe until the day before (and this with some consternation) that she was looking forward to it.

II And this he should have foreseen

Vayne supposed irritably that he should have brought the matter of Gabranth up only _after_ he had first finished reacquainting himself with Ashelia and her bed to his satisfaction. Now he was left to sit on the couch and watch her prowl in a tight circle in her bedchambers, pondering the information and, likely, Vayne thought, internalizing his sigh, working up a temper that was doubtful to end with the both of them in intimate proximity on the sheets.

"And it did not occur to you to mention this to me earlier?" Ashelia began by demanding. He'd foreseen that question, at least.

"It only _occurred_ to me to inquire with Gabranth whether his brother knew about him last week, Ashelia." Endearments only irritated his Empress: sometimes Vayne wondered if this was because they seemed to embarrass her, or because sweet nothings were not quite a wolf's province. "After all, Gabranth certainly knows about Basch."

"Because he is the head of your Bureau of military intelligence," Ashelia said accusingly.

"How was I to know how much information your Generals are privy to?" Vayne countered.

At least Ashelia did not bother denying the fact that Dalmasca employed spies. Every government did, Vayne found: it was part of the entertainment in politics, finding out which spies answered to whom and what to feed them with. "Do you not think you should have brought it up in _normal_ conversation?"

"Your meaning being, amidst being skewered by your latest critique of my internal affairs policy I should mention that I know Basch's identical twin?" Vayne asked dryly. "We do not ever seem to have _normal_ conversations."

Ashelia had the grace to blush, but did not look like she would be backing down: in the interests of addressing the immediate comfort of his body Vayne conceded, "What do you intend?"

"Bring Gabranth with you next month," Ashelia folded her arms under her breasts (was his devious young Empress wearing that filmy material on _purpose_), her tone brooking no protest.

"Or you could visit Archades with Basch." Vayne pointed out, pulling his eyes upwards with some effort. "Larsa misses you."

"You could have taken him here with you," Ashelia replied tartly, and this even with a brief, mischievous smile. Larsa was ten, and had not yet seemed to grasp the concept of privacy, having not ever had to consider such a matter with his brother before, and in Rabanastre he could go wherever he pleased as an honored guest, even into a royal couple's bedchambers. There had been a few close shaves, the last time.

"Perhaps when he has a few more years under his belt," Vayne said, with as much dignity as he could muster. The desert nights were cold, even with the heavy curtains across the archway to the balcony in their chambers, and he was tired. "I can assure you that were I to force Gabranth to accompany me to Rabanastre he will be profoundly difficult."

"You are Emperor," Ashelia's tone seemed to indicate that she felt this solved everything, minions-wise.

"Do not tell me his brother has never proved stubborn." This was potentially a long shot: so far as he had seen of Basch, the man seemed happily amenable to just about everything, even the unenviable task of keeping Larsa fully occupied for an entire day in Lowtown, enough for Vayne to amuse himself to his satisfaction with his Empress in the _Leviathan_.

Ashelia made a face. "Sometimes. But I do not care much for Archades."

That was an understatement, Vayne felt, with a grin. Ashelia did not like the food, the politics, the clothes, the _weather_, the urban jungle of lofty buildings… and a myriad other different aspects of life in Archades, with which she would take every opportunity to voice complaint, and they had long agreed wordlessly that for their mutual peace of mind the monthly Rabanastre visits were preferable for both parties.

"Or we _could_ leave the matter be. No doubt whatever it was between them that soured their brotherhood must have been-"

"Ultimately your fault," Ashelia said flatly, and glared at him when he arched an eyebrow. "_Emperor_."

"I did not declare war on Landis," Vayne pointed out.

"But you participated. _And_ you are now Emperor."

"So I am," Vayne said, keeping a tight rein on his temper, "But I was not Emperor _then_, and the participation was no choice of mine. I was your age." He had lost his brothers in the war, to ambition and treachery. It had _hurt_.

"Ah." Old wounds were difficult to hide when they were deep, and Ashelia must have seen something: she looked girlish then, abruptly uncertain, the fingers of her right hand twisting in a lick of her hair. "I am sorry, if I have mis-spoken."

Vayne shrugged (old wounds), then straightened up on the couch when Ashelia approached him, to sit atop his thighs with her long legs folded against his hips, her arms around his neck, resting her cheek against his shoulder. He relaxed, startled at the sudden change, as he held her close, listened to her breathing, and knew that one of the main traits of his Empress that drew him to her was the difficulty he had in _predicting_ her.

0.2 the lost

She had been surprised to find Maethel was right, after all, about men (as much as Ashe blushed to think): they tended to be far more amenable to matters _after _satiation. This was usually why she preferred to argue with Vayne _before_: it tended to be more stimulating (and fairer), but on this issue Ashe (not without some guilt) resorted to underhanded tactics.

III Ronsenburg stubbornness

Vayne _knew_ he should have been more suspicious of Ashelia during the week he was in Rabanastre, when more time was spent out riding, discussing philosophy and in engagements in bedroom games than actually quarreling about policy. As such Vayne had been in a somewhat bemused state of contentment when he had agreed (all unthinking) to bring Gabranth the 'next time', and he was now regretting it, three weeks after the fact.

The problem was although he knew well enough that Gabranth would obey him and agree if ordered to go, Vayne had not been overstating matters when he said that the man would turn out to be profoundly difficult: matters would likely escalate to the point that Gabranth would 'happen' to be so intrinsically tied to matters of significance in Archades that he simply could _not_ go.

And so the matter stood that it was a day before he had to leave for Rabanastre and the easiest way he could see to get the Judge-Magister onto the _Leviathan_ without fuss was to have some people kidnap him.

Vayne shuddered to think what his reception would be were he _not_ to bring Gabranth. About a week after he had (to a certain degree) reconciled with Ashelia he had brought up the mutual expedience of House Solidor's historical concept of marital fidelity (or technical lack of) wherein both parties were free to pursue their own discreet affairs. After weathering the immediate resultant indignant storm and spending a considerable amount of effort apologizing for his _crass_ and _perverse_ suggestion, and then enduring the month after _that _of cold silence, Vayne had wondered why in the name of Hell had he ever thought _she_ would agree.

And therefore, for the sake of succession if nothing else (or so Vayne told himself), the first monogamous Emperor in Solidor memory needed a solution. Besides, Gabranth was beginning to notice that he was stalling, and was becoming curt in his report.

"You wish to ask something of me, Lord Vayne?" Gabranth finally inquired. Ronsenburgs weren't stupid.

"How busy are you within the next week?" Vayne asked, discarding dissimulation for an order. Besides, he could always kidnap Gabranth, he thought sourly. Damn young Empresses and their insistence on marital monopolies.

"There is the matter of the Yalian Consul and…" Gabranth paused, narrowing his eyes. "Is this about my brother, sir?"

"Why would you think so?"

"Because it does not take much deduction to conclude that you likely found the matter of my brother interesting enough to bring up with Empress Ashelia," Gabranth reasoned impatiently, "After which she likely insisted that you take me with you tomorrow to Rabanastre. Am I right, sir?"

"Remarkably so," Vayne said, somewhat surprised. He had to learn to guard himself a little better on the issue of Ashelia. Gods knew what would happen were a belief to spread that Archadia's Emperor was besotted with his pretty young wife: Ashelia could cause untold chaos with access to Imperial Court petitioners who thought they could curry favor with her.

"You could have simply asked me," Gabranth said mildly, though he looked resigned. "Your Majesty."

"Would you have come?" Vayne countered. "Willingly, without trouble?"

"Perhaps in the interests of avoiding royal marital strife," Gabranth said, and _there_ was _this_ brother's humor, in the faint, fleeting curve of his lips.

0.3 and that a surprise

Ashe told herself she wasn't surprised when Vayne greeted her at the Eastern Gate with a helmed Judge at his back, and that therefore, she shouldn't be _pleased_. The Judge coughed and turned his head when she kissed his Emperor full on the lips.

IV This side of this world

Basch looked as though he wanted to bolt at any given opportunity, Gabranth thought, as he took his helmet off and saw recognition flare in his mirror's eyes. They had been left alone in one of the staterooms, this one with a balcony overlooking the bazaar, the noise hardly muted even six storeys up. He placed his helmet on the antique long table in the center of the room, considered sitting down, but remained standing instead, in the stretching silence.

His brother looked well, in his fitted General's armor, his skin darkened a little from the harsh sun, his cornstalk hair still worn carelessly long. The scar over his face seemed a little less livid. Gabranth stared at Basch until the latter dropped his eyes, to his gauntlets, and his resentment, that had festered on the entire journey to Rabanastre, seemed to lose focus.

They had been fourteen then.

"She passed away," he said then, into the silence, and watched Basch flinch. He wanted to add _and at the end, she asked for you_, but the blade of his words seemed enough: the eyes Basch raised him were wounded, an old wound long unhealed, while Gabranth's had already begun to scab. They had been _fourteen_, but he still could not find it within himself to forgive the brother who had looked forward and walked away, not even now.

Gabranth waited a moment longer, then turned away and stalked to the balcony, folding his arms over the sill, looking down at the bazaar. "I did not wish to come."

"Very likely," Basch murmured. "Do you wish me to leave?"

"This is what my Emperor told me yesterday," Gabranth said, ignoring the question, the words difficult in his throat. "That he spoke to Empress Ashelia and to one Sir Vossler Azelas, and that they had informed him that you had entered Dalmasca from the Entite Pass."

"Aye."

"But the shortest path to Dalmasca is through the Mourn valleys." When Basch did not answer, Gabranth added, "But at Landis' side of the Entite pass there was a town called Estericht, where there was rumor that a powerful healer resides." Silence. "By the time you reached Estericht, Mother had already passed away."

A pause. "Aye."

"You did not think of first _informing _me why you were leaving?"

"Because you already thought it was cowardice. Because perhaps it _was_ cowardice. I did not wish to watch her die. And because if you had told me that it was foolish I would have believed you." An exhalation. "You would have been right."

"Why did you not come back?" Gabranth turned around then.

Basch held his eyes only for a moment, then dropped them back to his gloves. "I heard that the Lady Elaine fon Ronsenburg had passed through the Veil, that Archadia had conquered the Holdings. I did not want to return only to find your graves."

"So you went on, through the Entite Pass."

"I did."

"Did you know I had turned Magister?"

"Gabranth. Aye."

"And why did you never send word to me-"

"Because you would not have believed me. Because it sounds all too much like mere excuse. And because it does not change the fact that I left," Basch glanced up again, "And did not return."

It was Gabranth's turn to look away, exhaling, curling his fingers tight over the weathered stone.

0.4 but they didn't

Vayne looked amusingly annoyed when Ashe brought up her dissatisfaction with how the matter of the Ronsenburg brothers seemed to have settled, but then again, she _had_ been in the process of lapping at him, curled between muscular thighs. His reply had been curt. _Did you think it would resolve overnight?_ Of course she didn't, which was why she was going to ask him to bring Gabranth again next month – after she took advantage of Vayne's frustration. Ashe smiled, hoping she looked appropriately coy, and lightly scratched her nails up his prick (he guessed immediately at her intent, of course, but he only groaned).

V Hence the twilight

Vayne had no idea why Ashelia was concerning herself so much with the private affairs of two stubborn grown men, and in fact was somewhat surprised (and disconcerted) to find that she had somehow managed to rope a number of people into the project, including her father, Vossler, Larsa, _Drace_ and even Zargabaath. Still, it _was_ giving her something to do other than harangue him about internal affairs, and as such he quietly settled the Yalian Consul, suppressed the rebellion, and was vetting new taxation legislation before Gabranth finally approached him and asked him to call them off.

Judge-Magister Gabranth looked stressed and tired, while his Emperor was feeling much better about the whole matter, even as Gabranth told him rather irritably that his lady wife was the source of Drace and Zargabaath's suddenly endless questions about his childhood, as well as Larsa's equally endless inquiries as to when he was next visiting his brother.

"But if I am correct, you are not on speaking terms with your brother because of a misunderstanding," Vayne said. His desk had fewer stacks of paperwork than it used to.

"Sir." Gabranth wore a hunted expression, which seemed entirely out of place and absolutely amusing. Vayne did not bother to hide his smirk, which made his knight sigh. "I understand that you are letting matters take their course so as to amuse Empress Ashelia, but I am busy and-"

"And you do not wish to admit that you may be a little in the wrong in this matter? And you believe this, of course," Vayne continued, when Gabranth was silent, "If not you would simply have brushed away the entire business instead of allowing it to affect you."

"Sir." Stiff reproach. "May I be dismissed?"

"Do allow it to drag on as long as you wish," Vayne inclined his head. "I, for one, am benefiting directly."

0.5 because they are men

Ashe informed her husband that she felt both brothers were now being equally stubborn about matters, to which he asked her, dryly, what _she_ thought _he_ could do about _that_. It occurred to Ashe that were she to know more about the pleasures of men she _could_ convince Vayne to be somewhat more cooperative, but then there was little need to when she knew all the other ways.

VI Lasting Situation

Ashelia's conciliation: that she spend a week on Archades within which there would be no complaints about the city whatsoever – began with a fight, wherein Ashelia had asked, very sweetly, whether she could wear Dalmascan clothes, and he, being distracted by a question posed by Judge-Magister Gabranth earlier about the Magister selections, had answered 'wear as little as you like'.

Gabranth had looked amused later in the day – somehow the man had found out – but had not given comment, at least. Vayne had long lost track of the matter of the Ronsenburg brothers (as he filed it in his mind), and therefore asked, somewhat irritably, after his brother.

"He is well," Gabranth said vaguely. They were in the south lawns of the Akademy, the sternly trimmed gardens clear of cadets, an hour after luncheon. "Please send the Empress my regards." A pause. "When she next speaks with you."

The very faint, fleeting smirk told Vayne that the argument had indeed not escaped the ears of the Empire's Head of military intelligence, and his mood soured further.

0.6 on the money

Ashe smiled when Basch opened his defense on her critique of his anti-bandit suggestions with _But my brother said_, laughed when he blushed and looked beseechingly at Vossler (who drawled, without e'er changing his expression, that he did not think _Archadian_ tactics quite applicable). It wasn't perfect still, but it didn't need to be.

-fin-


End file.
